


Assorted Ficlets

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Neck Kissing, Summer, Sussex, Undressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: A collection of Sherlock ficlets I originally posted on Tumblr, some for prompts, some just because of a whim, gathered together.





	1. Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hit a nice round Tumblr milestone, so as a thank you to all my followers, I wrote a little something. A gif of Benedict stretching in a very snug t-shirt sort of inspired this ficlet.

There was a hole in Sherlock’s t-shirt, a small rip along the side caused by the fabric catching on a drawer handle or a seam wearing out, John didn’t really know. He’d noticed it about a week ago, a little flash of pale flesh revealed when Sherlock moved in a particular way, a peek of skin on his flank, that territory of firm muscle between the ribs and the hip.

It was a smoky blue t-shirt, almost grey, the cotton worn quite thin. The shirt managed to hang both loosely and tightly on Sherlock’s frame, a contradiction that intrigued John over his breakfast. It was loose around the collar and sleeves, tight over his chest and torso, just a tad roomy again at his waist where his striped pajama bottoms were tied low on his hips.

John blew across his cup to cool the steaming tea, contemplating the curves of Sherlock’s back as he stood at the sink. Sherlock reached up into the cupboard to grab a clean mug, and there it was, the little hole in the shirt winking temptingly, the slit just the right size for a fingertip.

John swallowed, very much wanting to touch Sherlock’s skin, just there through the hole; the pad of his finger slipping in, pressing lightly against that compact muscle, able to feel the subtle shifting of his body, every movement telegraphed down the lean fibers of his torso.

Sherlock twisted to the left, pouring strong coffee into his mug, his hair enticingly rumpled from a late night of analyzing crime scene photos. He turned to look accusingly at John over his shoulder. “Why are you staring?”

Caught off guard, John fumbled with his cup. “I wasn’t – I mean, I just noticed – you’ve a hole in your shirt.”

Sherlock glanced down, unable to see it. “Where?”

“There, along the side.”

Sherlock twisted again, still not seeing it. John stood up, took the few steps over to Sherlock, now just behind him. He lifted his hand, extended his index finger. “Lower down.” He stopped talking and demonstrated, placing his finger into the hole, touching the warm skin through the fabric. “Right here.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to John’s, surprised and a little alarmed. He didn’t pull away. “Oh.”

Having come this far, John pressed his finger lightly into Sherlock’s side, feeling the vitality and energy of Sherlock’s body surging through that one small gap. Growing bolder, John curved his hand just under Sherlock’s ribs, his index finger sliding deeper into the hole, his remaining fingers and thumb resting on the outside.

“John—” Sherlock’s neck was craned around awkwardly, but he let it fall back to the center when John’s hand curled around his side. “Oh.”

John’s other hand drifted under the t-shirt, coming to rest over Sherlock’s hip. Now both hands were on Sherlock’s waist, and John found himself lifting up onto his tiptoes, his eyes on Sherlock’s nape, his lips ghosting across the taut skin under the knob of his spine.

“Can I go on?” John murmured behind Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock nodded, letting go of the breath he had been holding, a huff of air that lowered his shoulders.

John kissed his nape again, pressing his pelvis into Sherlock’s thighs, wending both hands under his shirt. He ran his palms slowly up every ridge and slope of ribs and chest until his fingers reached Sherlock’s nipples, teasing them to tight buds, a whimper slipping from Sherlock’s lips, his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

John breathed in Sherlock’s scent, the warmth of sleep and bed and skin and coffee, and turned him by the hips, his finger untangling from the shirt, the fabric now rucked up at an odd angle, partially exposing Sherlock’s torso as John pressed into him again, this time to find his mouth, kissing him hungrily.

“I’ve wanted to put my finger in that hole for days,” John slurred against Sherlock’s lips.

“Should have done it sooner,” Sherlock breathed back, his hands snaking under John’s white t-shirt.

They kissed harder, urgent, starved.


	2. Beautiful Strange Boys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for @221b-consolation prompted by Martin Freeman’s priceless [ comments](http://rominatrix.tumblr.com/post/172893095386/martin-freeman-and-his-call-me-by-your-name) about having a Call Me By Your Name moment.

John weaves a little as he hangs up his jacket and Sherlock smiles slightly over the top of his book, knowing John was at the pub.

“Have fun?” Sherlock asks, nonchalantly turning a page, his legs stretched out in front of him.

“Hm? Yeah, sure,” John rubs a hand over his stubbly cheek, feeling a bit buzzed and blurry. “Interesting walk home.”

“Oh?” Sherlock keeps his eyes on his book, expecting a dull story.

“Well, I had a little sense of…” John pauses, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “…Call Me By Your Name action.”

Sherlock snaps his eyes up, his attention laser-focused on John. “Excuse me?”

John shrugs, smiling. “I met some beautiful strange boys…” he trails off, remembering the young man with dark hair and soulful eyes clinging to the tall, square-jawed American. They were drunk, funny, and blatantly flirtatious. He laughs a little. “Maybe I should have gone with them. I might have gotten lucky.”

Sherlock’s face flushes. “Why are you telling me this?”

John waves a dismissive hand. “I’m half joking. Plus I’ve had two gin and tonics. Maybe more.” He sits down heavily in his chair across from Sherlock, who’s looking peevish. “What?”

“You’re _half_ joking?”

“It was nothing. Just two young blokes messing around with me… sort of… proposing a threesome…”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open a bit in shock and he quickly seams it shut. He shifts in his chair, both uncomfortable with the conversation and oddly turned on at the thought of John wrapped in a tangle of strange men’s limbs.

“Well,” Sherlock finally huffs, dismayed at the mix of confusing feelings spiking through him, “maybe you shouldn’t talk to ‘strange boys.’” He practically sneers the last two words, then feels foolish.

“They were hardly threatening types,” John snorts. “I could’ve wrapped the skinny one around my finger. The big one, though.. he was well over six feet tall. Solid muscle. It’d take a lot of rope to hold him down.”

He stops, wondering why he’d chosen that particular phrase. He flicks a glance at Sherlock, then squints in disbelief. “Are you _jealous_?”

“Of course not.”

“Coz there’s no need to be,” John rambles over him. He hesitates, then presses on. “And it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve met some beautiful stranger and gone home with them.”

“No, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” Sherlock mutters, picking moodily at the book binding.

“In fact, I moved in with him the same day, hardly knowing a thing about him. Just some mad scientist who likes to play the violin.” John holds his breath, wondering if he’d just given away too much.

Sherlock’s hands still as he absorbs John’s words. He looks up, finally making the connection. He remains wordless, trying process the fact that John just referred to him as beautiful.

A crooked smile breaks across John’s face. “I’m not going home with anyone else, you idiot.” He leans forward in his chair, puts a hand on Sherlock’s knee to steady himself as he gazes into Sherlock’s eyes. “Don’t you know that by now?”

Sherlock holds John’s gaze, the weight of John’s palm hot on his knee. “Oh.” The single syllable is all he can utter, and so he says it again as he drifts towards John, his eyes hopeful, his mouth warm and inviting, his breath laced with juniper and lime. “Ohh…”

The book slips to the floor as John’s hand slides up Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s heart is racing with anticipation and John’s blood is humming with gin and lust and happiness, their eyes closing, their lips meeting, then slowly parting.

_“Ohhhh…”_


	3. In the Garden at Sussex

Sherlock stretches an arm into the wire cage filled with wildly curling green leaves, his long fingers gently sinking around the red globe of a plump late summer tomato.

He tugs and the fruit yields from its stem and falls into his palm like a soft, heavy sigh.

The mid-morning sun is hot on the back of his neck as he draws out his hand. He lifts the tomato to inspect it, John rounding the corner of the garden to join him.

“Look,” Sherlock says, showing John the glorious prize.

The deep red color contrasts with the luminous green stains on Sherlock’s fingertips, the pungent, spicy scent released by the tomato leaves shimmering in the still air.

John looks up into Sherlock’s eyes, suddenly overflowing with gratitude for the simple pleasures of their quiet life together.

“It’s perfect.”


	4. Ghoulies and Ghosties

_From ghoulies and ghosties_   
_And long-legged beasties_   
_And things that go bump in the night_   
_Good Lord, deliver us_

 

“Goodnight, little brother. Don’t forget to say your prayers.” Mycroft smiled wickedly and made a show of straightening the needlework sampler with the less-than-comforting invocation that hung on Sherlock’s bedroom wall.

Sherlock glowered at Mycroft with all his eight-year-old might, throwing daggers with his eyes. He hated it when their parents went out, leaving Mycroft in charge. And Mycroft knew how much Sherlock hated the cross stitch gift Great Aunt Violet had sent him for his last birthday. Sherlock dimly recalled her boney old fingers and drafty Victorian house that smelled of cat pee and boiled cabbage.

“Sweet dreams,” Mycroft hissed, closing the creaky door, leaving Sherlock in the pitch dark.

Sherlock clutched the sheets under his chin, his eyes straining and failing to find the faint outline of the bedroom door. Mycroft must have deliberately switched off the hallway light as well.

“The hell with you,” Sherlock whispered half-heartedly at Mycroft, trying to muster bravery as a cold fear slowly crept up his bed.

The sing-song proverb twined around his brain, memorized despite his hatred of it. Stupid. It was a stupid and terrible thing to hang in a child’s room, looking so sweet and flowery but laced with poisonous words.

He would not let himself be scared. He would not go running into Mycroft’s room. He hugged the sheets tighter and closed his eyes, envisioning the periodic table of elements, trying to distract himself by naming them.

_Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron… Ghoulies, Ghosties, Beasties… Vampires, Witches, Werewolves…_

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut harder, certain that something was watching him from the end of the bed, a panic rising in his chest.

He wanted to flee the room, but was too afraid to place his feet on the floor, fearing something would snatch his bare ankles.

Torn between cowering and bolting, Sherlock heard a small whimper break in the back of his throat. In a sudden panic, he threw the sheets aside and heaved himself from the bed, stumbled to the door, wrenched it open, and raced blindly down the hall to Mycroft’s room. He stood trembling in the doorway, scared and ashamed.

Mycroft looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow, then sighed. “Sherlock. Really?”

Sherlock nodded, twisting his fingers.

Mycroft let out another sigh, then shifted on the bed and folded down the covers next to him. “Get in, then.”

Sherlock scampered to the bed and jumped in, pulling the blankets up to his nose.

“You really have to get past your fear of the dark,” Mycroft intoned.

“Well, you’re afraid of things, too.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled, weaker than he liked.

“Such as?”

“You’re afraid of looking foolish. And of playing sports. And of people.”

Mycroft was silent, his mouth a thin line. “Don’t talk. Go to sleep.”

Sherlock smiled under the covers, knowing he’d hit home on all points. Tomorrow, he thought as he turned on his side away from the reading light, he’d rip that needlework off the wall and burn it in the woods. He’d very much enjoy that. He might even ask Mycroft to help. It could be their secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Growing up, I had a needlepoint version of this proverb in my room made by some well-meaning relative. It creeped me out entirely and offered absolutely zero comfort.


	5. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the March @sherlockchallenge "Shadows"

They both know the shadows that cross the other’s face. The tight mouth, the tense jaw, the gaze turned inward on a moment from years ago and thousands of miles away, a handful of seconds replayed over and over, time ground into a groove so deep it’s almost impossible to escape. Afghanistan. Serbia. Dark memories.

Sometimes the shadows fall closer to home. A rooftop. A crackhouse. A different kind of pain, an ache.

They don’t talk about it.

Instead, there is a cup of tea placed quietly on the side table, a long glance up from a screen, a soft ‘You okay?’ This is how they track each other, never pressing for answers, always close by but not hovering, waiting patiently for the shadows to retreat.

Sometimes there are moments of pure light — joyful seconds that seem to glow: Sherlock’s crooked smile, John’s infectious laugh, a lingering gaze in a midnight cab.

They don’t talk about it.

But someday, somewhere in a dim hallway or gritty alley, their eyes will lock and everything will be said without words, their bodies drawing together, lips meeting in a tremulous kiss.

Someday, their mouths will whisper against hot skin, legs and arms sliding across cool sheets, sharp hip bones digging into soft thighs, and their shadows will dance sensuously across the bedroom walls.


	6. Carousel

_Inspired by this photo:_

“No, John. Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock huffs out an irritated breath, fixing his eyes on a distant point over John’s shoulder. He can’t look at the carousel behind John, all garish colors and grotesque animals speared through with gilded poles.

He certainly can’t look down at Rosie’s expectant face, her eyes probably big and pleading, her small hand wrapped around John’s fingers, bottom lip no doubt quivering.

“I’m not riding that monstrosity,” Sherlock repeats. He hears a shocked gasp from Rosie, then steals a glance at her. He’s surprised to see her mouth set in a scowl, her hair mussy, her hand curling into a fist. He almost smiles, charmed by her reaction. So much of her father in her… But no, he’s not getting on that awful thing with its headache-inducing calliope music and sticky children.

“Sherlock,” John says patiently, “she really wants you to ride with her.”

_Can’t look, can’t look, can’t look._ Sherlock fortifies himself, eyes averted.

“There’s a black stallion right next to a unicorn,” John points out, trying to cajole them both.

“I want the dragon,” Rosie growls.

John steps a bit closer, slipping into Sherlock’s field of vision. “Please?”

Sherlock can smell John’s cologne, can feel his familiar presence. He thinks of their warm bed and soft sheets, the touch of John’s hands on his skin, the heat of his mouth on his body.

His eyes are helplessly drawn to John’s face, smiling and handsome and relaxed, beard sprinkled with grey, head tilted, Rosie tugging on his hand. “Please?” John mouths to Sherlock, tipping his head toward Rosie.

Sherlock gives in, unable to say no to either one of them. “Fine. You win,” he capitulates dramatically. He bends down and sweeps Rosie up, swinging her over his head and onto his shoulders. “Let’s go find that dragon.”

She laughs, and Sherlock knows John is smiling at them as they stride toward the lights and music and magical beasts, all thinking the same word: _family._


	7. Late Summer

John undoes the top button of Sherlock’s shirt, taking his time, savoring the texture of soft cotton, the contrast of white fabric against Sherlock’s sun-kissed skin, the random pattern of freckles dusted across his forehead and cheekbones.

Summer is nearing its end, the days growing shorter, the evenings cooler, but the afternoons are fussy and hot, sometimes stormy, often listless.

It’s a balmy night, the bedroom window cracked open to let in the breeze, the single lamp casting a cozy yellow glow, indigo shadows draped along the walls.

John undoes the second button, his eyes tracing down the tendons in Sherlock’s long neck, coming to rest on the delicate skin lining the hollow of his throat. He pauses, toying with anticipation, relishing the way Sherlock’s posture is both languid and tense, filling the room with a low vibration of need.

John trails his fingers over the curve of a collar bone; he can feel Sherlock’s pulse thrumming just beneath his fingertips, his heart quickening at his touch. Sherlock’s hands hang loose at his sides, willingly subdued, waiting.

John strokes his fingers down Sherlock’s sternum, down into the slit of gaping fabric. He slowly slips the third button free, then slides both palms up Sherlock’s chest, pushing back the shirt, fully exposing the V of honey-hued skin on his neck and chest. The golden color will gradually fade to match the rest of Sherlock’s fair skin. By Christmas, all will be pale as snow again, no boundaries claiming _Here I was touched by the sun, Here I was not._

The room is quiet, the curtains gently stirring. John steps closer now, mapping the plunging outline of summer-burnished skin with his fingers. He breathes in the faint notes of cologne and the heady scent of Sherlock’s warm body. He draws closer, their breaths shallow, wanting to mark Sherlock’s skin with his own mouth, wanting to taste his salt and heat.

John brushes his lips against the base of Sherlock’s neck. He hears Sherlock’s sharp inhale, feels the shaky exhale. He knows how sensitive Sherlock’s throat is and expertly threads his way up higher, kissing and lightly sucking his skin, his reward a low groan of pleasure.

He finds Sherlock’s mouth, kisses him deeply, backing him against the wall. He presses forward with his hips, suddenly raw and lustful, his pulse throbbing. He greedily drinks in Sherlock’s eager response, their hungry mouths insatiable, his fingers tangling into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s immense hands grasp his arse, pulling him closer, hips flush, grinding.

“John…” Sherlock moans his name, a plea for more.

“I want you,” John gasps between urgent kisses, fumbling at the remaining buttons, their hearts and bodies radiating desire like the sun.


End file.
